


Pine Woods

by coinin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Clothed Sex, Finnish Cabin, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sauna, Snowed In, Unsafe Sex, geographically challenged Canadian Shack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 01:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15595557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coinin/pseuds/coinin
Summary: After a mission goes awry, McCree and Hanzo are forced to flee into the Finnish wilderness. Will they find shelter before they freeze to death? And more importantly, what are they going to do to stave off boredom if they do find safety?





	Pine Woods

**Author's Note:**

> The cabin is a real place; if you're interested in what it looks like there are photos [here](http://www.nationalparks.fi/kiertamajarviopenwildernesshut), and a great Youtube video that also shows the lake and the surrounding forest [here](https://youtu.be/gdcOz36U5U8?t=2m11s).
> 
> Title is shamelessly stolen from the song Pine Woods by Korpiklaani.

The road from Murmansk to the Finnish border is, as Hanzo has discovered over the course of the last several hours, very long and very boring. He and McCree are in Russia for a mission, and their end of it had gone off nearly without a hitch. Their ride out, however, had been delayed, due to a clusterfuck on the other side of the globe. With a group of angry anti-Omnic paramilitary closing in on their location, Hanzo and McCree had been forced to abandon the rendezvous point and make their own way out, which had turned into racing for the Russia-Finland border in a stolen rental car.

McCree is dozing in the passenger seat, face soft in the way it only is in sleep, while Hanzo keeps an eye on the autopilot and stares at the GPS display, trying to figure out where the hell they’re going to go. They can’t pass the border at the official checkpoint - this was a stealth mission, no cover identities needed, and there’s no way Shimada Hanzo and Jesse McCree themselves can get past the border guards.

They can probably sneak across the border if they get off the road - there’s nothing out here, just endless pine forest and reindeer moss and the occasional Sami encampment - but that emptiness has its own problems. It’s mid-November and there’s a storm bearing down on them, and without shelter they will die of exposure in the long arctic night.

Hanzo zooms in on the display, swiping down the border, looking for something, anything. There’s a cluster of grey building silhouettes just south of the border on the Finnish side, but Hanzo’s hopes are quickly dashed when he looks closer: it’s a historical site, something left over from the Second World War. Not a good place for two members of a quasi-legal shadow organization to lay low, and too close to the border besides. North of the border there’s nothing, and Ivalo, the closest Finnish town, is too far away to hike the distance before the storm hits. Further south, though - Hanzo pauses in his scrolling and zooms in further. There’s a note on the map, so small he had almost swiped past it.

There’s a house symbol on the map, next to a small lake, with the words “open wilderness hut.” Nothing else, but it’s something. Hanzo zooms back out - the hut is inside a large national park on the Finnish side of the border - and does a rough estimate of the distance from the hut to the point where they would have to abandon the car. Assuming they can use the access road marked on the Russian side of the border, it’s about 23km cross country - rough, but possible. In the normal course of things, 23km wouldn’t be a problem, but Hanzo checks the temperature forecast and winces. 

They’re getting close to the border. Time to make a decision.

“McCree,” Hanzo says, getting a grunt in response as McCree surfaces out of his doze.

“How long’ve I been out?” McCree asks, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks rough, even with the rest. It had been a short mission, but had made up for that with long hours, and they’re both exhausted.

“A few hours,” Hanzo replies, and launches into a summary of their options.

“Well damn,” McCree says with a sigh when Hanzo is done. He swipes up and down the map, confirming what Hanzo had said. “Wish this op hadn’t gone south. Can’t say I fancy a hike through these woods. Can’t see any other option, though.”

They abandon the car a few kilometers short of the border, where a well-maintained dirt track departs from the main highway and follows the border south. McCree unloads their gear while Hanzo scrambles the GPS system, setting the car on a course back to Murmansk.

When it had become clear they would not be getting their promised extraction, McCree had made the decision to raid an old Blackwatch supply cache - miraculously still undisturbed, other than some old footprints in the thick dust - to resupply and kit them out in better cold-weather clothes. It had been a strange feeling, stripping down in the freezing room before layering up in identical sets of unmarked black Arctic tactical gear; stranger still when they were done and Hanzo glanced over at McCree, watched him holster Peacekeeper, and realized this was how he would have looked, ten years past.

It was far from a bad look.

Now, at the side of the road with a freezing north wind whipping around them, Hanzo pulls Arctic camo snow overalls on over his down jacket and insulated tactical pants, pulls on a balaclava and winterized night vision goggles, tops it all with an ushanka and an Arctic parka with fur-lined hood, so heavy it almost stands up on his own. He watches McCree wrestle snow boots on over his regular boots, and reflects that having prosthetic feet has its advantages. 

When they’re done, McCree very carefully hangs one of his remaining flashbangs from the rear view mirror by the pin. Every bump in the road will jostle the pin, until the weight of the flashbang pulls it loose, and then there will be a mostly destroyed car left kilometers from their last location.

The dirt is pale and sandy, and makes for easy going. The road hasn’t been plowed, but the wind has blown it mostly clear of snow; what’s left piled up in drifts on either side. By mutual unspoken decision, they set a hard pace. It’s about 13.5km to the point where they will have to strike out cross country, and the sun is going down in three hours. 

Two hours later, they stop for a minute on the side of the road, sheltered by a tangle of half-fallen pines and brush. The temperature is dropping steadily, already down to a brisk -15C, with worse promised by the icy north wind. It’s an hour until sunset, and what little light they had is rapidly fading under the heavy cloud cover.

McCree tugs his mittens off with his teeth and digs around in his pack while Hanzo checks the GPS. He murmurs his thanks when McCree hands him a ration bar - nutritionally complete sustenance with the approximate color, flavor, and texture of concrete. Despite claiming to have all the calories necessary to sustain an adult male for half a day of combat-level exertion, they always leave Hanzo feeling simultaneously still hungry and like he’s just eaten an indigestible brick.

“We are closer to the turnoff than I had estimated,” Hanzo says, watching as McCree pulls a bottle of water from his pack and grimaces when he realizes it’s already halfway frozen.

“Well, that’s good news,” McCree replies, applying a chemical ration heater to the water bottle. “Don’t fancy spending a minute longer than we have to out here.” 

Hanzo agrees with the sentiment. It’s punishingly cold, even sheltered from the worst of the wind and crouched elbow-to-elbow with McCree. He shivers. There’s a real chance they’ll die out here. He wonders, not for the first time, whether they should have taken their chances with their pursuers, but-

McCree interrupts Hanzo’s grim musings by handing him the water bottle, now filled with something electric orange - he’s added one of the packets of orange-flavored electrolyte drink from the liberated Blackwatch emergency rations, Hanzo realizes, and applied another heater, bringing the liquid up to something approaching hot. Hanzo takes the bottle and drinks half of it - not as bad as he was expecting, and the heat is very welcome - before handing it back to McCree.

McCree carefully collects their trash before they leave, and Hanzo smiles behind his balaclava. For a man who displays such a devil-may-care attitude toward most aspects of his life, McCree is very serious about a few things - his Peacekeeper, for one, and more surprisingly, wilderness stewardship. 

The wind bites into them as they stand, and a shudder runs through Hanzo. Even with the Blackwatch gear, the wind is vicious: damp and icy. It’s McCree’s turn to lead - they switch off every so often - and he mutters something that’s swept away by the wind, before setting out at a near-jog. Hanzo follows grimly, exhausted but as eager as McCree is to get his blood pumping again. Their plan, such as it is, is to follow the track south as long as possible, until they’re roughly parallel to the wilderness hut, and then head west cross country. The distance from the turnoff point to the hut is around 10km, though Hanzo holds no illusions about being that lucky - going cross country always brings with it backtracking and being forced off-route due to inconvenient geological features. 

By the time they reach the vicinity of the turnoff point, it’s dark. There’s still technically time before sunset, but the cloud cover is so thick it makes no difference. Hanzo is profoundly glad for the winterized night vision goggles, because the batteries in their communicators are rapidly dying from the cold. Hanzo had turned his off and tucked it into an inside pocket of his down jacket to keep it warm, and McCree is checking the GPS on his as infrequently as possible. 

It’s during one of these GPS checks that McCree shrugs and says, “Close enough, I reckon.”

There’s a break in the snow banked up at the edge of the road some ten meters further on, and it’s there that they plunge off the track and into the great unknown.

The terrain is fairly flat, scraped clean by the glaciers thousands of years past, but it’s still rough going. The trees are arctic pines, short and scrubby in comparison to the ancient, towering cedars of Hanamura’s forests; widely spaced, the area beneath them mostly bare of scrub. Under the drifted snow, the ground is carpeted in springy moss and low growing plants.

They cross the border roughly 11.5km south of the official border crossing. It’s pleasantly anticlimactic: a few fences, some signs warning in multiple languages that the area is patrolled by dogs, and then they’re in Finland. There’s a track on the Finnish side of the border, as well - slightly smaller, sized perhaps for an ATV instead of a truck. According to the GPS, there’s an actual trail leading from the track to the wilderness hut, but they’ve hit the track some few kilometers north of the intersection, and they decide to simply plow straight through until they intersect the trail. 

By the time they hit the trail, Hanzo is more exhausted than he has ever been in his life. It’s been dark for hours and they’ve been hiking through deep snow, and if that wasn’t enough, the temperature has plunged to a point that even with the Arctic gear Hanzo is beginning to feel the chill.

According to the GPS, it’s only a few kilometers from the hut when the trail - already poorly marked - peters out into nothing, vanishing into a bare, flat plain of windswept snow and winter-bitten tufts of swamp grass. On the GPS it’s marked as a marsh, and the footing is the worst they’ve encountered yet: rotten ice and empty streambeds filled with slippery rocks, all hidden beneath a thin covering of snow. After the second time McCree trips with a muffled curse, Hanzo grabs his arm.

“I will lead,” Hanzo grits out, white puffs of his breath instantly stolen by the screaming wind. “Give me the GPS.”

McCree seems ready to protest - they’ve been dividing the burden of breaking a trail, and McCree had only taken over his most recent shift beginning after the border crossing - but Hanzo shakes his head.

“I do not have ankles to twist,” he explains. “If you break your ankle, we will both die.”

It’s hard to tell under the NVGs and the scarf pulled up over Jesse’s face, but Hanzo thinks he might give a tired smile.

“Guess that’s one advantage of metal feet,” he says, sounding as winded as Hanzo feels.

They set off again, Hanzo leading. The treacherous footing makes for torturously slow going, and Hanzo is shivering in earnest now, body unable to keep up with the cold. He catches himself wondering if it would really be that bad to stop, to sit down, take a rest - and shakes himself. Perhaps the world would not be worse off without him, but McCree, at least, does not deserve to die out here in this howling wilderness.

Hanzo barely registers when the trail rises up out of the marsh and back into the trees, he’s so focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s only the slight cessation in the force of the wind that shakes him out of his stupor. He checks behind him, hit by a sudden bout of paranoia - what if McCree had fallen unnoticed in the snow - and is relieved to see McCree still behind him, trudging along with his head down. Hanzo checks the GPS again - they’re so close. Maybe they’ll yet live.

It seems like a small eternity until they crest the low rise and start down the other side. According to the GPS, the lake is ahead of them, the hut on the lakeshore. Hanzo is too tired to hope for anything more than perhaps a sheltered location to lie down and die - somewhere Overwatch can recover their bodies.

And then, out of the dark and the driving wind, a distinctly building-shaped patch of darkness looms up in front of them. Hanzo stumbles to a stop in front of it, and McCree bumps into him, starts to say something before he sees why Hanzo has stopped, and swallows his words.

The structure is a low A-frame, roughly but solidly built out of half-hewn logs. Hanzo looks at the chinks between the logs and feels his stomach fall - it might be solid, but there’s no way they’ll be able to keep it warm - but he reaches out and tugs the door open anyway. Any shelter is better than none.

It’s an outhouse. A nice outhouse, with a toilet seat and a bin of wood shavings to keep the smell down, but an outhouse nonetheless. Hanzo can feel McCree at his back, looking over his shoulder, and feels his soft, despairing laughter when he registers what they’re looking at.

“If this is a wilderness hut I’m gonna haunt the damn idiot who put this on the map,” McCree says when his laughter subsides.

“Perhaps there is something else ahead,” Hanzo says, without much conviction.

“Might as well see,” McCree says. “Don’t fancy dyin’ in a shithouse.”

Hanzo snorts.

There is another structure, less than a hundred meters on down the path. This one is even less of a shelter than the outhouse: a woodshed with an open door. Hanzo rests his forearm against the log upright of the door and lets his head fall against it, hysterical laughter threatening to bubble up and out of his throat. Damn the Finns and their useless definitions of wilderness shelters.

McCree makes a noise, and Hanzo swallows down the hysteria and stands up to see McCree striding purposefully down the gentle slope toward the lake.

“Somethin’ down here,” McCree shouts back over the noise of the wind. “Let’s hope third time’s the charm!”

There’s another building at the base of the slope; a sturdy little cabin, and as Hanzo steps up onto the deep porch, stopping to knock snow and dirt from his feet, he’s not entirely sure that he isn’t in the grips of a hypothermic hallucination. The roof of the porch is held up by three gnarled log poles, and the front of the cabin is decorated with reindeer antlers and an official looking wooden sign proclaiming this to be the Kiertämäjärvi Autiotupa.

There’s a simple iron bar holding the door closed, but no lock. McCree lifts the bar and hauls the door open, the heavy hinges creaking in protest, and Hanzo hurries past him into the cabin - pitch black and cold, but blessedly still. He fishes a flashlight out of an inner pocket as McCree slams the door shut.

“Lights on,” he warns, as he slides his own NVGs up.

 

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” McCree replies, and Hanzo turns the flashlight on.

There’s a long moment of breathless silence as the flashlight beam plays over the inside of the cabin, and then-

“Well, I’ll be damned,” McCree breathes, low and awed, and then he starts to laugh. “The map called this a _hut_?”

The cabin is tiny and simple, but at that moment, chilled to the bone and mere minutes ago resigning himself to death by exposure, it seems to Hanzo an almost unimaginable luxury.

Almost half of the room is taken up by a wide, raised sleeping platform, large enough for four or five people, depending on how friendly they were, and covered in a thick mattress pad. To the left of the door there’s a woodstove, and next to the stove a wood rack full of dry, split firewood. On the right, there’s a tiny table protruding from the wall, and a few stools made from sections of log. A window overlooks the lake, and the windowsill houses a collection of half-burnt candles and a few abandoned partial bottles of alcohol. There’s also a shelf with a two-burner propane stove; a stainless steel pot and tea kettle on top, and on the floor, several large metal buckets.

They’re going to survive. The knowledge seems to hit them both at the same time, and they both stagger into action.

“I’ll get a fire started in here, get us some more wood,” McCree says, already crouching by the woodstove. “Hot damn, someone even made kindling.”

“I will get water,” Hanzo says, taking the buckets and stepping back out into the night.

The wind is worse now that he’s had a few moments’ reprieve; shocking in its viciousness as it steals away what little warmth his tired body had managed to regenerate. Hanzo borrows the axe from the woodshed to break the ice on the lake. In the darkness he trips over a fire ring buried in snow down by the lakeshore, and spends a moment swearing furiously at the uncaring universe. He hauls himself upright, thankful that at least he didn’t injure more than his pride, and makes it the rest of the way to the lake edge without mishap.

The water under the ice is crystal clear, and the sight of it sloshing in the buckets awakens a sudden and powerful thirst in him; his body reminding him that it has been hours since he’d huddled next to McCree and they’d shared a bottle of electrolyte drink. Hanzo swallows, acutely aware of how dry his throat is, but resists the urge to bring a bucket to his lips and gulp down the icy water. He can’t afford to chill his body from the inside out.

Back at the cabin, there’s a fire crackling in the woodstove, and it’s already noticeably warmer than outside. Several candles have transformed the pitch black cabin into a dim and inviting refuge from the wilderness outside - a tiny bubble in the fabric of reality, Hanzo thinks, half-delirious from exhaustion. Hanzo stays just long enough to fill the kettle with water and set it heating on the propane stove before he braces himself and ventures out once again to return the axe.

McCree is in the woodshed, sawing logs to length using the provided trestle.

“Thank you kindly,” he says when Hanzo drops the axe inside the door. “Figure we should get a few armloads of logs into the cabin before the snow hits, case we have to hole up.”

Hanzo nods, too tired to formulate a verbal answer, and wordlessly sets up to split the logs that McCree has already cut. It would be almost pleasant, working in silent tandem with McCree in the pine-scented darkness, lit only by the beams of their flashlights, if Hanzo weren’t so exhausted he finds himself having a hard time completing linear thoughts.

He falls into the rhythm of splitting logs - balance the log on the chopping block, lift the axe, swing, knock the split logs away, repeat - until he reaches for another log and finds that he’s split them all. Hanzo stands, staring dumbly at the place where there had been a pile of logs, blinking.

“All right there?” McCree asks, and Hanzo shakes himself, brain catching up to reality.

“Yes,” he says shortly, and ignores the skeptical look McCree throws him.

They load their arms with the split firewood and trudge back to the cabin, where McCree stacks the wood near enough to the stove that it will dry out without danger of catching fire, and Hanzo fishes cups out of their packs and pours them both hot boiled water.

“I’ll take first watch,” McCree announces.

Hanzo is so tired he doesn’t argue, just nods and lets himself drop down onto the sleeping platform, pulling his bow into easy reach. For half a second he thinks about removing his prosthetics, but it’s too much trouble and there’s still a part of him convinced that their pursuers will find them. He curls up on his side, pulls his hood up, tucks his hands into his armpits, and falls into the blessedly dreamless sleep of true exhaustion.

He wakes suddenly to a cracking sound, his sleep-fogged mind screaming _gunshot_ as he jerks upright and reaches for his bow. McCree is half out of his seat by the table, but he’s already shaking his head. 

“Falling tree,” he says with a rueful grin. “I was gonna let you sleep for another half hour, but since you’re up, mind takin’ over?”

According to Hanzo’s comm, he’s slept for three hours, not enough to do more than blunt the exhaustion, but he switches with McCree without complaint. McCree falls asleep as quickly as Hazo had, lying on his back with his head pillowed on his pack, hands resting on his stomach and legs crossed at the ankle. He looks relaxed, and it’s easy to imagine him napping in the sun somewhere safe, perhaps with his hat tipped over his face, not deep in the wilderness and possibly still under pursuit. Hanzo watches the slow rise and fall of his chest for far longer than acceptable before he forces himself to look away.

It’s warm enough inside that Hanzo takes off his parka before refilling the kettle with water and putting it on to boil. He checks his prosthetics next - something he should have done before sleeping. He’s lucky that there’s no sign of frostbite where the metal meets his flesh.

Hanzo keeps watch through the next several hours, straining his ears to hear anything above the moaning of the wind as it whips around the cabin. Every so often he adds another log or two to the fire, but other than that there’s nothing to do but sit and listen and sip his boiled water.

McCree rolls over and sits up around the four hour mark.

“Nothin’?” he asks around a yawn.

“I fought them off while you slept,” Hanzo replies dryly, and McCree laughs.

“How long was I out?”

“About four hours.”

“So we’ve been here almost eight hours and no company,” McCree says thoughtfully. 

That their pursuers had been less than two hours behind them when they left Murmansk goes unspoken between them.

“The snow started two hours ago,” Hanzo says. “The forecast predicted temperatures unsafe even for omnics by this time.”

They both glanced reflexively toward the window, a pitch-black rectangle that showed only the reflections of their exhausted, candlelit faces.

“Then we’re probably safe to both sleep at the same time. Not like we’re going to hear ‘em before they’re kicking down the door.”

“I concur.”

“Glad we’ve got that settled. I’m goin’ back to sleep.”

The cabin is warm, but not so much that a little extra warmth is unwelcome, and they end up sleeping back-to-back, their parkas draped over their bodies. McCree is a wall of flesh and body heat behind Hanzo, the solidity of his presence so reassuring Hanzo finds himself almost alarmed. When had he allowed himself to grow so used to the presence of others? But before he can examine that thought too deeply, sleep claims him again.

Hanzo wakes to a cabin lit dimly by the cool light of weak sunlight reflected off snow, and to his body informing him in no uncertain terms a visit to the outhouse is in his very near future. McCree is already awake, sitting on the edge of the sleeping platform and lacing up his boots.

“Wind’s died down,” he says.

Hanzo grunts and hauls himself upright, stiff muscles protesting the movement. He’s sore from the trek, hungry, and so itchy with dried sweat and the horrible crawling feeling of too-long unwashed skin that he fantasizes about digging his nails into his skin and peeling it off, like a lizard. Unfortunately, absent the ability to shed or to bathe, he will simply have to endure - but first, he will take advantage of not having to put on boots to get to the outhouse before McCree. McCree realizes what’s going on as Hanzo opens the door, and Hanzo grins to himself as McCree’s squawk of irritation is drowned out by the door slamming shut.

Outside it’s bitterly cold, enough so that breathing is painful, and Hanzo hastily retrieves his balaclava from the pocket of his parka and pulls it on. Down among the sheltering tree trunks the wind has lessened to almost nothing, but the tops of the trees are tossing in a stiff wind - a herald, no doubt, of more bad weather on the way. The sun is up, though it’s impossible to tell where it is through the grey clouds, and there’s fresh snow piled in wind-driven drifts. Hanzo gets the necessary business of relieving himself over with as quickly as humanly possible, since the unheated outhouse is, quite literally, Arctic in temperature.

On his way back to the cabin, Hanzo notices another building down at the lake edge, and makes a mental note to check it out later. Inside, McCree has kept himself busy by gathering the contents of the long shelf above the window and laying it out on the table. After McCree departs, walking with the swift, stiff-legged gait of a man who desperately needs to take a piss, Hanzo looks through McCree’s finds.

There’s several half-empty bottle of alcohol - vodka, Crown Royale, and something black with a label that’s been worn away to illegibility - a bible, a paperback book in Finnish, a deck of Russian playing cards, a variety of candles, one packet of something that appears to be dehydrated vegetable soup, and three packets of something that might be instant oatmeal, and which expired a year ago.

Hanzo has another four ration bars in his pack - two days’ worth of full calories - and yet, even as hungry as he is, his whole body rebels at the thought of eating one. After a moment’s contemplation, he breaks a bar into chunks, dropping them into the cabin’s cookpot and pouring hot water over them from the kettle. He turns the heat on, and then, out of some grim sense of adventure, opens one of the packets of probably-oatmeal - which is, in fact, instant oatmeal, with fragments of what are probably freeze dried berries. Hanzo pours the oatmeal packet into the pot with the ration bar, and then digs through his pack for the set of titanium chopsticks and spork that are part of his standard kit.

McCree returns just as Hanzo’s concoction begins to bubble. The ration bar has dissolved into a slurry, and the berries turned the whole mass a vaguely purplish-grey color that food was never meant to be. Hanzo sits at the table and prods at the glop with his spork before taking a bite.

“What the hell is that?” McCree asks, peering into the pot with a deeply dubious expression.

“Ration bar and oatmeal,” Hanzo replies, around his bite.

“How is it?”

“Horrible,” Hanzo replies candidly. The ration bars bore an unfortunate resemblance to concrete, and the rehydrated version continued in the theme by strongly reminding Hanzo of wet concrete, complete with a strange and disturbing gritty mouthfeel that lingered unpleasantly on the back of his tongue. The addition of the oatmeal had given it a gluey element, as well, and if it had been berry flavored none of that made it into the finished product. He mechanically shoves another bite into his mouth - he needs the calories - and swallows as quickly as possible.

“Can’t blame you for trying; those things are well-nigh inedible,” McCree says. “Here, hand it over, I gotta know how bad it is.”

Wordlessly, Hanzo does as requested, and watches as McCree takes a bite and his face contorts into a grimace of distaste.

“Well, that ain’t good, but it doesn’t beat the time one of the guys got his hands on barbecue sauce and tried to grill ‘em.” He shudders at the memory.

Hanzo gets through three-quarters of the horrible mush before admitting defeat.

***

They need more firewood, so after what passes as their breakfast, McCree heads to the woodshed to saw more logs. Hanzo takes a slight detour to check out the fourth building he had seen earlier.

It looks from the outside to be another cabin, though smaller than the one they’ve taken refuge in. Hanzo knocks snow off his feet and stoops to enter the low door. The outer door opens into a kind of anteroom, with a internal dividing wall and another door to Hanzo’s right. To his left, there’s a window over a low bench along the outside wall, and across from the door, more split firewood piled along the the far wall. Intrigued, Hanzo shuts the outside door behind him and opens the inner door. The inner room is almost entirely dark, lit only by a tiny window, high under the eaves. Two levels of benches - one at sitting height and another above - run the length of the long back wall. There are large plastic tubs under the window, and smaller tubs and plastic dippers on the lower bench. To his right, along the internal dividing wall, there’s what looks like a giant stainless steel stockpot set into an enclosure made of rocks mortared together, and next to it, a woodstove with the top covered in rocks.

Hanzo looks at the stove, and the realization hits him in a wave of giddy joy: he’s standing in a _sauna_. He claps his hands together and bows without thinking about it, offering up a wordless prayer of thanks to whatever spirits might be nearby. A sauna! They would be able to get clean - the thought of washing his hair spurs Hanzo into movement, back out into the first room, where some previous visitor has even left a box of waterproof matches on the windowsill. Hanzo wishes blessings upon them and their family.

There’s kindling here too, and dry split wood, and soon Hanzo has a fire started in the stove. He waits until the larger kindling is burning fiercely and tosses on a few logs before heading back to find McCree. Filling the water reservoir will go quicker with two of them.

McCree is still in the log shed, a large pile of sawed logs by his feet - and when he sees Hanzo, an expression on his face like a man who suspects he’s been abandoned to chop firewood by himself.

“There’s a sauna,” Hanzo says, forestalling any grumpy queries about his whereabouts.

The irritation vanishes from McCree’s face, replaced by eager delight.

“Hot damn!” He exclaims, barely avoiding dropping the saw in his haste to put it down. “You already get the fire going?”

Hanzo nods. “Your assistance hauling water would be appreciated.”

“Say no more, darlin’. Think we can manage some laundry? My clothes feel like they’re about to get up and walk off without me.” 

Hanzo frowns at the endearment, but leads the way back to the sauna. He has to lengthen his stride to keep up with McCree’s long-legged lope.

There’s a wooden walkway leading from the front porch of the sauna down to the lake, where it ends in a rickety platform and a set of stairs down into the water. The ice near shore is rotten and pocked with holes; easy to break using a fallen branch. McCree admires the inside of the sauna while Hanzo checks the fire and feeds it a few more logs, and then between them they haul the two largest plastic tubs down to the lake for water. It takes a trip and a half to fill the stainless steel water reservoir, and then another trip to fill the tubs with cold water for bathing. That task done, Hanzo starts a second fire under the reservoir itself, to heat the water faster, and then there’s nothing to do but wait impatiently. 

They pass the time by finishing chopping wood, enough to replenish the supplies in both the cabin and the sauna. Hanzo refills the water buckets in the cabin and boils another batch, wondering as he does so if they really need to - under the ice the lake water is crystal clear and achingly cold, free of silt and sediment.

Hanzo has one change of underclothes in his pack, unfortunately as dirty as the ones he’s wearing. Every fiber of his being rebels at the thought of getting clean only to put these reeking clothes, still tacky with dried sweat, back on. McCree’s laundry idea has merit - perhaps someone left something suitable for washing clothes. 

A few minutes later, McCree returns from stoking the fire in the sauna, stomping snow off his boots as he steps into the cabin. 

“Reckon it’s just about ready. Water in the pot’s almost to a simmer.”

Hanzo nods, gathering up his dirty clothes and his kit bag. What he wouldn’t give for a proper towel - but he can’t complain, not when he’s been lucky enough to find a sauna in the middle of the Arctic wilderness.

“You gonna do some laundry too?” McCree asks with a nod toward Hanzo’s clothes.

“As you said, they are nearly ready to walk off on their own,” Hanzo says with a grimace, and McCree laughs.

It’s companionable - jarringly so, given the their usual circumstances - to walk down to the sauna together, wading through the snow. Inside the front room, it’s already toasty warm. When Hanzo ducks into the inner room to get water, he has to stop and breathe for a moment at the blast of heat. It’s so warm, and he’s been so cold - he drags himself away, already sweating under his layers. Soon. First, laundry.

There’s half a bottle of unobjectionably woodsy-scented all purpose camp soap that someone had left on a little shelf on the inner wall - frozen, but now mostly thawed - that will do to wash their clothes. The water comes away unpleasantly grey at first, but when it runs clear Hanzo checks the armpit of the undershirt he’s washing - not perfect, but vastly better than it was. 

They hang their damp underclothes on the lines criss-crossing the ceiling, evidently rigged exactly for this purpose, and then - _finally_ \- it’s time to strip and enter the sauna itself.

Hanzo happens to glance over just as McCree sniffs at his own armpit and then recoils with a look of disgust.

“Jesus, I’m ripe,” McCree mutters. “Upside to all those layers, I guess - locks in the smell.”

“Only imagine if we were in the tropics,” Hanzo says dryly. He’s no cleaner than McCree, but his morbid curiosity doesn’t extend as far as confirming that he stinks.

“No thanks,” McCree replies. He gestures toward the door. “After you.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t argue.

It’s like stepping into a Kyoto summer day, if Kyoto smelled like pine pitch - almost overwhelmingly hot and humid, until his body adjusts and cold-tense muscles start to relax, and then all he wants is _more_ of that heat. 

In his youth, Hanzo had taken sauna enough while on business trips to negotiate with the Russian Mafia that he knows the routine, which is much the same as that of the Japanese bathhouse, only instead of washing up and then soaking, one washes up and then steams. He picks up one of the shallow washbasins stacked neatly on the bench and dips some of the gently boiling water out of the water reservoir, diluting it with the still-cold lake water, until it’s just barely cool enough not to scald him. 

Hanzo can’t help grunting in pleasure as he dumps half the basin over his head, the water running hot through his hair and down over his shoulders and chest. He can hear McCree following his example, the splash of water and McCree’s throaty groan.

“ _Damn_ , but that feels good,” McCree says with sincere appreciation. Hanzo looks up as McCree shakes wet hair out of his eyes and grins. 

Once again they’re saved by the inadvertent generosity of past travellers: there’s enough abandoned travel-sized bottles of body wash and shampoo, even a sliver of bar soap, that they can properly wash up. There’s a sort of ecstatic sensuality in working shampoo lather through his thoroughly greasy hair that Hanzo revels in - the physical sensation of chasing away impurity, the sheer base pleasure of becoming clean. And then to scrub the rest of his body, until he no longer reeks of bitter fear-sweat, to feel the nameless grime of days spent in dusty warehouses and filthy back alleys wash away, until he’s cleaner and warmer than he has been in a week, and in a state of very nearly euphoric relaxation.

McCree throws another few logs on the fire as Hanzo is finishing up, and splashes a dipper of water on the hot stones. Steam billows up off the hissing rocks, and Hanzo breathes deeply, the air damp and hot and warming him from the inside out. He sits down on the lower bench near the stove, letting his arms and head rest on the upper bench behind him, and revels in the heat and the feeling of being clean, watching through half-open eyes as McCree pours more water on the stones and then sidles past Hanzo, his gaze sliding over Hanzo’s body with frank admiration. 

Hanzo has been accused on more than one occasion of being vain, a character flaw assessment he accepts with equanimity - he has put a great deal of work into assuring that his body is not only a perfect physical machine, but that it looks the part, and it’s gratifying when other people appreciate the results of his effort, regardless of whether that appreciation leads to anything else. Hanzo smiles slightly, lets his legs fall open a little wider - he very much doubts this will go any further, but the admiration is doubly enjoyable coming from someone like McCree, who understands just how much effort is needed to maintain peak physical condition, and Hanzo is in a mood to indulge his vanity.

Then McCree does a subtle double-take, his eyes widening and his eyebrows going up, and it takes a moment for Hanzo to realize that McCree must have seen his _other_ piercing. Hanzo grins to himself, sharp and amused.

“Like what you see, cowboy?” He asks.

McCree chuckles, apparently completely unembarrassed about being caught staring. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen one a’ those in the flesh, so to speak,” he says with a grin of his own, stepping up to the second bench.

“And here I took you for a man of experience,” Hanzo says.

“You wound me,” McCree replies, mock-aggrieved, as he stretches out to lie full-length on the upper bench, his feet knocking against Hanzo’s arm. “Let’s just say back in my wild youth the crew I ran with didn’t exactly have the cash for fancy piercings.”

Hanzo snorts. 

The heat is finally chasing away the chill that had settled into Hanzo’s bones, and he relaxes further with every passing minute, relishing the feel of steam condensing on his skin and running in droplets down his body. Neither of them move for a long time, other than Hanzo occasionally leaning forward to splash more water on the stones when the air starts to dry out.

“Could really go for a cold beer right now,” McCree says eventually.

“The Russians used to invite us to their _banya_ , they called it, when we visited for trade negotiations,” Hanzo says, reminiscing. “When you came out of the heat for a break they would serve grilled sausages and ice cold beer and vodka.”

“Sounds like quite the experience,” McCree says, something wry in his voice.

“Yes,” Hanzo says simply. “Though I prefer the current company.”

“Why darlin’, I’m flattered,” McCree replies.

“Yes, being better company than a bunch of Russian gangsters is _such_ a high bar to beat,” Hanzo says with a roll of his eyes that’s wasted on McCree, still lying down on the upper bench.

“Hey now, some of my best friends were gangsters.”

“I’m sure they were scintillating conversationalists,” Hanzo replies.

The laugh that gets is long and loud.

“Nah, you got ‘em all beat without even tryin’,” McCree says when his laughter subsides. He sits up. “Speakin’ of breaks, I think it’s about time I took one. You up for it?”

Hanzo nods. He’s far from being done with the sauna, but the heat is starting to feel oppressive, and it’s definitely time for a bit of cold air.

Outside the light is already beginning to dim, and the snow is falling harder. McCree waddles down the plank walkway to the lake with the awkward gait of a barefoot person trying not to slip on a wet surface, until they’re standing on the landing at the edge of the lake. 

Hanzo is so warm he feels as though the cold air can barely touch him, like cherry-red steel straight out of the forge, but he still quails at the sight of the dark lake water, chunks of ice floating in the hole they made earlier. 

“Rock paper scissors to see who goes first?” McCree asks dubiously, also looking down at the lake. 

Hanzo desperately wants to say yes, to put the moment off a little longer, but -

“What, not man enough to step right in?” He says instead, and takes the first step down into the water. 

It takes every ounce of self discipline Hanzo possesses to keep his smirk from slipping and to take the second step. The water is _viciously_ cold, and he regrets everything about this. But now that he’s started, there’s nothing to do but keep going. He can’t retreat, not with McCree right there behind him, watching. 

There are four wooden steps down into the dark water, and by the fourth, the water is just over halfway up his thighs. The next step is to the lakebed, and then the water will be up to his waist. Hanzo can’t help it; he pauses on the fourth step, gritting his teeth before taking the plunge. 

The noise he makes could, if the listener was being _very_ charitable, be called a grunt - but in truth, it’s more of a whimper. 

“How’s the water?” McCree says, sounding far too cheerful, the bastard. 

“Chilly,” Hanzo replies, and steels himself for the final challenge. 

He takes another step deeper into the lake, and crouches to submerge himself completely before he loses his nerve. 

If the water had been cold before, now it’s like a hundred thousand needles of ice driving into his flesh. He doesn’t scream when he surfaces - not out of any self discipline but because his lungs feel like they’ve seized up from the cold, no breath in them to do more than gasp in silent shock. 

McCree is positively cackling when Hanzo wades swiftly back to the stairs and rapidly ascends into the dubious comfort of chill air. Even the wind feels warm in comparison to the lake water. 

“You shoulda seen your face when you came up,” McCree gets out between peals of laughter, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He takes the first step down toward the lake, still laughing. “Like a cat that-“

Hanzo doesn’t wait to find out how that phrase finishes: as McCree lifts his foot to take the next step, Hanzo plants a palm between McCree’s shoulder blades and shoves. 

McCree makes a satisfyingly large splash as he hits the water, his yell cut off by sudden flailing. Hanzo smiles, waiting just long enough to see McCree rise like a wrathful Adonis from the lake before he turns and sprints up the walkway. A handy thing about his prosthetic feet: they don’t slide on wet, slippery wood, and Hanzo is safely ensconced on the upper bench of the sauna, rapidly regaining feeling in his fingers, when McCree stomps in. 

“You,” he says, pointing to Hanzo, “are a damn sneak.”

“Your back was wide open,” Hanzo says serenely. 

“Because I trusted you!” McCree says, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his frown, and he tosses another log in the stove before he throws himself down on the bench and sprawls out like the American he is, always too loud and always taking up too much space. 

From this angle, above and behind McCree, Hanzo can see the freckles spattered thick across his shoulders, trailing off down his back. His skin gleams in the warm light of the single candle, the divot of his spine a sinuous line of shadow between shifting muscles as he hangs his head and rolls his shoulders. 

Hanzo looks away. 

They sit in companionable silence for a while; Hanzo simply enjoying being clean and entirely, gloriously warm. Eventually McCree breaks the silence, twisting around to face Hanzo before he speaks. 

“So when didja get the-“ McCree gestures vaguely toward Hanzo’s lower half. 

Hanzo raises one eyebrow. If McCree can’t says the words, Hanzo isn’t going to help him. 

McCree rolls his eyes. “The dick piercing.”

“In a fit of youthful rebellion,” Hanzo answers. McCree seems surprised. 

“Really. I woulda thought it came with the hair and all the metal in your face.”

Hanzo hums, surprised to find that he wants to tell McCree the rest of the story. 

“It was shortly after I was confirmed as my father’s heir,” he says, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. It occurs to him that he has never told this story to anyone. “My family, for all their faults, never had a problem with the fact that I was gay. But when my father’s health was failing and I became the de facto head of the clan, the elders made clear to me in no uncertain terms that while they didn’t care if I had a discreet lover, I would have to take a wife and provide heirs in the old fashioned way.” Hanzo sneers at the memory. “And so-“ he shrugs. The rest is obvious enough: he had been young and angry, and desperate for something to make his body feel like his own. 

“Your family is a real piece of work,” McCree says after a long moment. 

“Was,” Hanzo corrects. “Between Genji and I, I believe everyone involved in that decision is dead now.”

“Naw, I’m including you’n Genji in that,” McCree replies amiably. His easy smile takes any sting out of his words.

Hanzo lets out an undignified snort, amused in spite of himself. “I suppose that is accurate.”

They lapse again into peaceful quiet, the crackle of the fire a pleasing counterpoint to the soughing of the wind through the trees.

Hanzo eventually gives in to the temptation to stretch out on his stomach, resting his head on his crossed arms and basking as he takes deep, measured breaths of hot, pine-scented air; he feels like a cat melting in a sunbeam and it’s glorious. He’s clean and warm and more relaxed than he’s been in years.

Eventually they must again venture out into the cold, though this time they settle for rubbing down with handfuls of snow instead of braving the frozen lake a second time. McCree retaliates for the earlier dunking by waiting until Hanzo is distracted to get him into a headlock and scrubbing his face with snow. A brief wrestling match ensues, though the winner is inconclusive - so much naked, sweat-slicked skin makes for poor grappling, neither of them willing enough to dig fingers in hard enough to get a real grip, and they both give up quickly. Hanzo is breathing harder than is entirely warranted by the few minutes of exertion, mild embarrassment making him scowl - he should not be affected so. He can’t shake the sense-memory of McCree, blood hot and solid muscle, straining against them as they wrestled. McCree is pink-cheeked and grinning in the rueful, roguish way that makes it very difficult to stay irritated at him, and so Hanzo merely crosses his arms and scowls as they head back into the sauna.

They don’t stay as long, this time - Hanzo is beginning to feel heat-fatigued, dehydrated, and a little hungry, and it seems McCree feels the same. After sluicing themselves down with cold water, they clean up as they dry off - turning over buckets so rodents don’t fall in and get trapped, and raking out the coals so the fires will burn out quicker. In a testament to the fast-drying qualities of merino wool, their laundry is already almost dry to the touch; dry enough to put on, at least.

Back in the cabin, Hanzo gnaws grimly on another ration bar. Clean, rested, and fed, with plenty of water and firewood, he now faces a new problem: there is absolutely nothing to do. McCree has started a game of solitaire with the deck of playing cards - several missing cards replaced by jokers with the new suite scrawled in ballpoint pen, the entire deck so tattered and marked McCree probably has every card memorized by now.

For lack of anything else to do, Hanzo starts looking through the cabin guestbook - a cheap paper notebook, mostly full of incomprehensible Finnish entries. There are a few guests who seem to come back every year, and someone who draws little cartoons alongside their entries. There are a fair number of entries in Russian as well, unsurprising given their location - Hanzo makes a mental note to practice Russian after he tries to read them and is unpleasantly reminded of how rusty he is - and scattered entries in Swedish, French, English, even one lone entry in Japanese. 

Hanzo is grimly puzzling through one of the Russian entries when McCree heaves a sigh and leans back from the table. The cards have been swept into a pile in front of him, and as Hanzo watches, McCree cracks his neck.

“That’s about as much of that as I can take. Whatcha got over there?” McCree asks, jerking his chin toward the notebook.

“The guestbook. Weather observations, next planned destinations.”

“Sounds like a thrilling read,” McCree says.

Hanzo shrugs. “I don’t see any other options.”

“Well,” McCree says, drawing the word out and looking at Hanzo with an assessing look, like he’s weighing his odds at something unknown, “there’s always-” he breaks off and mimes a blowjob, tongue tucked into his cheek.

Hanzo stares. 

McCree’s smiling at him, lazy and easy, and Hanzo knows they could play it off as a joke, go back to playing solitaire and deciphering terrible Russian handwriting and never bring it up again. But he’s bored and antsy and his mind is flooding with images of McCree in the sauna, body gleaming with sweat and looking at Hanzo with - admiration at least, perhaps interest, and Hanzo can’t help but wonder-

“Very well,” he says, unfolding himself from his spot on the sleeping platform and swinging his legs over the edge. McCree’s smile has disappeared, replaced by shocked surprise, eyes wide as he watches Hanzo stand. “Or have you changed your mind?”

“No!” McCree says, a little too fast, and then he smiles, shamefaced. “Didn’t expect you to go for it, is all.”

Hanzo hums in acknowledgement, looking around the tiny cabin with a critical eye. There’s enough room between the stove and the sleeping platform for McCree to stand without danger of either of them burning themselves.

“Stand there,” he says, gesturing. 

McCree stands up and stretches his arms over his head, obnoxiously luxurious about it, before shoving his hands in his pockets - not a coincidence that it pulls the material tight across his groin, Hanzo is sure - and sauntering over to stand in front of Hanzo. Two steps shouldn’t be enough to build up a good swagger, and yet somehow McCree manages it.

“Aww, darlin’, don’t I even get a please?”

“Do you require a handwritten invitation?” Hanzo ask with mild exasperation. 

“That’s a bit rich for my blood, but there ain’t no reason we can’t slow this down,” McCree says, looking down at Hanzo with a faint, fond smile curling around the corners of his lips. 

Hanzo rolls his eyes. 

“ _Please_ stand there,” Hanzo says, grabbing McCree by the lapels of his fleece jacket and maneuvering him backwards across the cabin until his shoulders hit the wall. 

Hanzo takes a moment to look, then - there’s no point in rushing things, not with all the time in the world to waste. McCree looks strange without his usual plaid, dressed down in generic black tactical gear, but he stills stands the same, leaning against the wall with his hips out and his thumbs tucked into his belt, gaudy buckle standing out like a gold beacon shining above his crotch. He’s watching Hanzo now, the fey smile still there, and his eyes follow Hanzo’s hands as Hanzo unzips the fleece jacket the rest of the way. McCree shrugs out of it and tosses it toward the sleeping platform as Hanzo gets his hands under McCree’s henley and starts untucking his thermal undershirt. They’re both comically overdressed, Hanzo thinks as he finally gets his hands on McCree’s skin. 

McCree watches Hanzo with that inscrutable look in his eyes as Hanzo rucks up McCree’s shirt and scratches his fingers through the soft hair on McCree’s stomach, enjoying the way McCree’s muscles twitch and tense under his hands. Getting his hands on McCree’s ridiculous belt buckle sends an entirely unexpected frisson of desire through Hanzo. 

“So, uh,” McCree says as Hanzo opens his fly, “how do you want to do this, considerin’ as we don’t got anything in the way of supplies?”

Hanzo pauses in his efforts and lets his hands rest on McCree’s sides, just above his belt, as he considers. 

“I presume you’re clean?” He asks, and McCree nods. 

“Yep.”

“As am I.” Hanzo glances around the cabin. They have no towels, and he’s unwilling to sacrifice any of their clothes for potential cleanup- “I thought your plan was blowjobs? I see no reason not to swallow. Less cleanup.”

McCree makes a strangled noise, his face contorting as he first tries to fight, and then gives into helpless laughter, tipping forward until his head comes to rest heavy on Hanzo’s shoulder. 

“What?” Hanzo asks, sharp and more than a little irritated. He has no idea what McCree is laughing at, and he dislikes the feeling of not being in on the joke. 

“I figured you’d call me a savage and we’d laugh it off,” McCree says when he’s regained his breath, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Didn’t think you’d treat it like some kind of team building exercise.”

“If you’ve changed your mind,” Hanzo starts coldly, but McCree catches him before he can pull away.

“Hey now, didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying myself. Just let me kiss you, make this feel less like a transaction.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes,but he allows McCree to kiss him and doesn’t point out that this _is_ a transaction: an orgasm for an orgasm, for the sake of relieving boredom. 

McCree’s mouth is warm and soft on Hanzo’s, the unexpected gentleness disarming. McCree slides one hand around the back of Hanzo’s head, cradling the base of his skull as they kiss; his other hand - metal cool through the layers of Hanzo’s shirts - tucked up against the small of Hanzo’s back, holding him close. It’s tender, more tender than Hanzo needs or wants, but even when he tells himself he’s going to push McCree back and get down to business, he doesn't move.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” McCree says when Hanzo finally gathers himself and pulls away.

“Fishing for compliments doesn’t become you,” Hanzo informs him dryly, dropping to his knees, and if McCree was formulating a response it’s lost when Hanzo unceremoniously tugs his pants and thermals down around his thick thighs. 

McCree’s not even half hard yet, but he’s obviously interested, which is more than Hanzo was expecting given the nature of their circumstances. It’s not as though McCree is interested in Hanzo for any reason other than his convenience. McCree tucks his hands behind his head, tilts his hips toward Hanzo, watching as Hanzo leans in. Hanzo gets his hands on McCree’s hips, pressing McCree back against the wall and digging his thumbs into McCree’s iliac furrows. McCree smells like sweat - strong but not unpleasant - and it sends another unexpected visceral shiver stabbing through Hanzo’s gut. He licks his lips, slides McCree’s half-hard cock into his mouth to feel it pulse and thicken on his tongue.

Hanzo hadn’t expected to get anything out of blowing McCree - he’d chosen to go first for the entirely selfish reason that he didn't want to ruin his own afterglow by returning the favor - but McCree’s little moan when Hanzo’s mouth closes around him sends a shiver down Hanzo’s spine. 

“Shit, anyone ever tell you you look real good on your knees?” McCree asks, sounding awed.

“Very few people,” Hanzo replies, pulling back just enough to speak. McCree’s words are flattery, nothing more, but they still makes the vain part of him purr with satisfaction.

It has the intended effect - McCree shivers, and his cock twitches against Hanzo’s cheek, dark and velvet-hot.

McCree’s hard now, and Hanzo licks up the underside of his cock before sliding slowly back down McCree’s length. Hanzo keeps his mouth loose and wet, sets a leisurely pace: he’ll make this last as long as possible, maybe find out if McCree will beg - and that thought hits him so hard he has to draw a sharp breath in through his nose, lust twisting sharp and painful down to his own dick.

“Fuck, you sure do - sure do know how to tease a man,” McCree says breathlessly a minute later. “Not that I’m complaining, you look sweet as sin down there, your lips wrapped ‘round my cock like that.”

Hanzo glances up and rolls his eyes at McCree, but the sarcasm is lost - McCree just drops a warm hand down to cup Hanzo’s face, runs his thumb along Hanzo’s cheekbone.

“Y’got the prettiest goddamn face, sugar - those eyelashes, fuck, look up here again-”

Hanzo pulls off instead, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and settles back on his heels with his hands on his knees. It’s a pleasant respite for his thighs - McCree is inconveniently leggy, and in order to get his mouth on McCree’s dick Hanzo has to kneel up with his thighs supporting all his weight. His muscles are beginning to protest. He _could_ hold the position if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.

“Do you ever shut up?” Hanzo asks, in idle curiosity. He’s never had a partner so vocally inclined, and while it’s not exactly unpleasant, it’s distracting - makes Hanzo want to hear more of McCree’s voice when it’s low and breathless. He reminds himself that it means nothing, that they’re both nothing more than convenient bodies.

“Not unless you make me,” McCree says, with a grin, and Hanzo should have expected that response. 

“Lie down,” Hanzo says, levering himself to his feet.

“Anything you say,” McCree says, entirely too nonchalant for someone standing there with his dick out, and he flashes finger guns at Hanzo as he shifts away from the wall and flops down onto the sleeping platform.

An idea occurs to Hanzo as he kneels over McCree, and he brushes the fingers of his right hand gently down McCree’s cock, watches it twitch and hears McCree’s sharp breath. It’s not something he’s done before, and he wants it, wants it so much that he’s almost afraid to ask for fear of McCree saying no - Hanzo stops that train of thought, trails his left hand up over McCree’s stomach, past the rumpled mass of his shirts. He looks McCree straight in the eye and gently wraps his hand around McCree’s throat.

“I could shut you up,” Hanzo says, and it comes out quiet even in the small space.

Hanzo feels McCree’s throat move as he swallows, watches McCree’s eyes flutter shut and open again. He’s never stared into McCree’s eyes like this, never seen the amber around the irises.

“That you could,” McCree replies, just as quiet.

Hanzo lets out a shuddering breath, the wave of lust that breaks over him then enough to make him weak. He drops his forehead to McCree’s until the arousal settles and he can move again. He kisses McCree, who gasps; Hanzo plunges his tongue into McCree’s mouth as he tightens his fingers on McCree’s neck, digging his thumb and fingers into the spaces between muscles until he can feel McCree’s pulse beating rapidly against his fingertips. The web of skin between his thumb and forefingers presses down on McCree’s trachea, just enough pressure to make McCree’s breathing feel limited but not enough to actually restrict airflow. 

Hanzo licks his right hand, spits into his palm and starts to jerk McCree off in short, sharp strokes that match McCree’s shallow, panting breaths.

“Fuck,” McCree whispers. His eyes are very dark, all the amber swallowed up by black, and Hanzo doesn’t kiss McCree again, but he keeps his face close, breathing the same air.

By pressing down on the carotid arteries, Hanzo is restricting blood flow to the brain, and he knows - from experience in the dojo - what it feels like, the strange, floating feeling as the brain struggles to get enough oxygen - but he wonders, suddenly, what it would feel like like this. The thought of it - of trusting someone enough to let it happen - makes him shudder, and he tightens his grip, digging his fingers in harder.

McCree arches off the bed, gasping, eyes shut tight. His metal hand comes up to grip Hanzo’s wrist, not tight enough to hurt but there, a gentle reminder that he could crush Hanzo’s bones if he wanted, and that shouldn’t be arousing but it makes Hanzo shiver, makes his cock twitch with interest. He relaxes his grip on McCree’s throat, and McCree’s face pulls into a frown.

“No,” McCree gasps out, “keep on-” he breaks off as Hanzo reapplies pressure, but his hand stays on Hanzo’s wrist, grip loose.

Hanzo loses track of time, of how long they stay like that. He keeps stroking McCree in time with McCree’s increasingly ragged breath, watching his face as his eyebrows draw down and his mouth falls open, every muscle in his body winding tighter and tighter, coiled like a spring, until he’s shuddering rhythmically with every pull of Hanzo’s hand. McCree is almost whimpering now, and Hanzo is uncomfortably hard in his pants, but he can’t stop to adjust himself. He’s breathing almost as hard as McCree, and he wants - he wants to see McCree come like this, willingly helpless under Hanzo’s hands, and he can’t remember the last time he’s wanted someone so much. He leans down until he can trace the shell of McCree’s ear with his tongue, and then whispers into his ear.

“Tell me what you need.”

McCree’s only answer is a moan, and Hanzo wishes he could take McCree’s cock back in his mouth, but the angle is all wrong. He settles for licking his hand again, getting it good and wet before going back to jerking McCree. He lengthens his strokes, speeds up a little, watches as McCree squeezes his eyes shut and feels as his cock pulses. Hanzo lets go of McCree’s throat just as he begins to come, McCree’s eyes snapping open as the rush of blood hits. He gasps, glassy-eyed and still shuddering through his orgasm, come splashing across his stomach and Hanzo’s hand.

So much for staying clean.

After a moment, McCree starts laughing - eyes closed, still breathing hard, his usual chuckle coming out breathy and rasping.

“Goddamn, I think you broke me,” he says, wiping a hand over his face. He’s smiling and his voice sounds fond, so Hanzo is fairly sure it’s meant to be a compliment. He’s still trying to decide what to do about his hand when McCree opens his eyes, glances down at himself and grimaces, and then looks over towards Hanzo. “Guess you changed your mind about less cleanup,” he says with a wink. 

“The situation required modifications to the original plan,” Hanzo replies blandly.

McCree snorts and hauls his overshirt off, making a cursory attempt to clean off his stomach before tossing it to Hanzo.

“Gimme a minute,” McCree says, flopping back down and letting out a long, shuddering sigh. “Still can’t feel my feet.”

“I haven’t found that to be an impediment,” Hanzo replies, dry and amused. McCree flips him off without opening his eyes.

Hanzo admires the view for a few moments longer - McCree sprawled out on his back, thighs fallen open and undershirt up around his armpits, leaving all of his tanned stomach on display and looking more than mildly debauched - before losing patience. McCree’s performance had affected Hanzo far more intensely than he had anticipated. He kneels and straddles McCree’s chest, unzipping his fly as he does. 

“Impatient,” McCree says, opening his eyes and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Hanzo replies. McCree chuckles, low and rough, and the sound makes Hanzo shiver.

“Lemme just get comfortable,” McCree says, and there’s a brief, awkward moment as they get in each other's way. It’s soon sorted out, McCree leaning against the wall and Hanzo kneeling over his lap.

McCree settles his hands on the small of Hanzo’s back as Hanzo gets his cock out through the fly of his thermals, and drags his hands down over Hanzo’s ass, and Hanzo can hear McCree’s callouses rasping against the coarse ripstop canvas of Hanzo’s pants, but he can hardly feel them through the thick material - an intolerable situation, Hanzo decides with an irritated grunt. He rolls to the side and wriggles out of his pants, expedient if not graceful.

“That’s more like it,” McCree says as Hanzo straddles him again, and he immediately tugs the waistband of Hanzo’s thermals down to just under Hanzo’s ass. Hanzo glances down just in time to see McCree tucking the waistband behind Hanzo’s balls - the pull of the elastic lifts Hanzo’s cock and balls, putting them on display, and Hanzo feels warmth like liquid pooling in his stomach. He arches his spine, throws his shoulders back, watches McCree through half-lidded eyes as McCree runs his hands down Hanzo’s body with blatant admiration on his features. Hanzo preens at the attention.

Then, finally, McCree gets his hand on Hanzo’s cock, warm and dry and teasing as he runs his fingers gently up Hanzo’s length, rubs his thumb experimentally over Hanzo’s frenum piercing. Hanzo shivers. 

“Well hel _lo_ , gorgeous,” McCree murmurs to Hanzo’s dick, and Hanzo can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. McCree grins at him, still idly playing with the piercing. “Sure wish we were somewhere we could do this proper, because _damn_ , I wanna ride you.” The words shiver down Hanzo’s spine, settle low and hot in his belly. Hanzo licks his lips - the mental image of McCree above him, fucking himself on Hanzo’s dick, is _stimulating_ , to say the least, and one that he’ll file away for later. 

McCree’s grin turns mischievous. “You know,” he drawls, dragging his free hand up Hanzo’s side, over the ball of his shoulder, caresses his cheek, “I’ve ridden horses, bulls, and my fair share of cocks, but I ain’t never-” Hanzo realizes, with a dawning sense of embarrassment, where this is going, but when he starts to demand silence, McCree takes advantage and slides two thick fingers into Hanzo’s open mouth. “I ain’t _never_ ,” McCree continues, voiced suffused with suppressed mirth, “ridden a dragon.” 

Hanzo bites McCree’s fingers in retaliation, but not hard enough to really hurt.

McCree makes up for his appalling sense of humor by wasting no more time in getting his mouth on Hanzo, tongue flicking over Hanzo’s piercing before working his mouth down, hot and wet and deliciously tight, until Hanzo is gasping and has to brace his arms on the wall above McCree’s head. McCree gets both hands on Hanzo’s ass, rubbing over the thin, sensitive skin at the crease of his thighs before squeezing hard, pulling Hanzo closer, deeper, his tongue working along the underside of Hanzo’s cock as he pulls back and then tugs Hanzo in again with the grip on his ass.

Hanzo lets his head fall forward, resting on his half-clenched hands against the wall. The angle is odd, but when he looks down he can see the top of McCree’s head and his cock disappearing into McCree’s mouth. He shifts a little until the view is better, and then it’s hypnotic: McCree hasn’t left himself much room to work with, his lips stretching wide around the base of Hanzo’s cock as he moves his head in tiny increments, eyes half closed.

For a long few moments, Hanzo is content to watch McCree work, pleasure winding under his skin, until suddenly he needs more. He shifts his hips back, waiting to see if McCree will stop him, but McCree lets him pull back until just the head of Hanzo’s cock is still in the warmth of McCree’s mouth. McCree shifts his grip slightly, holds Hanzo there while he goes back to playing with Hanzo’s piercing. Every swipe of McCree’s tongue sends another electric stab of pleasure sparking through him, and only long habit keeps Hanzo silent as McCree suddenly changes tactics and takes Hanzo in deep again.

McCree keeps that pattern up - alternating unpredictably between paying attention to Hanzo’s piercing and the head of his cock and the deep, wet slide of his mouth as he swallows Hanzo down as far as he can - until Hanzo is gasping, body shivering out of his control, until he has to bite the meat of his thumb to keep from moaning. He’s nearly there, he just needs _something_ \- and then McCree pulls back, letting Hanzo’s cock slide out of his mouth with an obscene, wet slurp.

“Not yet, darlin’,” McCree says.

Hanzo snarls at him, frustrated beyond words, but McCree only chuckles, the sound infuriatingly attractive. 

“Think I owe you somethin’ more after what you did for me,” McCree says, low and dark just this side of dangerous, and to his shame it only makes Hanzo burn hotter. His cock twitches, bumping against McCree’s cheek, and Hanzo seethes.

“Only if you _shut up_ ,” he gets out between gritted teeth.

“Somethin’ tells me that ain’t the truth,” McCree says, his voice somehow dropping even lower.

Hanzo says nothing.

“Wanna hear what I think?” McCree asks.

“Does it matter whether I want to?” Hanzo growls. 

“‘Course it does,” McCree says calmly, his right hand brushing feather-light and teasing over Hanzo’s cock as he speaks, “you just say the word and I’ll get back to work.”

It doesn’t matter if McCree’s voice is sweet like honey and twice as rich, Hanzo should say something, end this - it’s already gone beyond simple relief of boredom, now they’re plunging into unknown territory-

Hanzo, again, shamefully, says nothing. 

“That’s what I thought,” McCree says smugly, and Hanzo grits his teeth. 

McCree wraps his hand around Hanzo’s cock, gives it two good strokes before stopping again, thumb fiddling almost absentmindedly with Hanzo’s piercing as McCree simply watches Hanzo with an inscrutable half-smile on his face. 

“Still think it’s damn shame I can’t ride you,” McCree says, and Hanzo can’t help but shiver, again. McCree licks his lips, still watching Hanzo with that damnable smile. “Get you all spread out on a proper bed, none a’ these clothes in the way.”

Hanzo closes his eyes, whether to escape the sight of McCree’s face as he talks or to concentrate on the images playing out in his mind’s eye he can’t say. The thought of it - their places reversed, Hanzo the one on his back, with McCree kneeling over him - is something that he’s never entertained, or perhaps a thought he’s never let himself entertain. He has the vague, uncomfortable feeling that now he’ll never be free of it.

“I can’t decide,” McCree continues, with another feather-light drag of his finger’s along Hanzo’s cock, “you got them archer’s hands, but I do enjoy watchin’ a man squirm while I take my time openin’ myself up.”

All his breath leaves Hanzo in a shuddering gasp as his mind supplies him with a vivid picture of McCree kneeling over him, bronzed skin dewed with sweat, head thrown back as he works himself open. McCree is chuckling again, and Hanzo is never again going to be able to listen to McCree chuckle over the comms as he punches someone, not without difficulties.

“Guess you’re the type that likes to watch,” McCree says, amused, his thumb rubbing over the piercing again, and Hanzo is so close even that tiny movement is almost enough to tip him over the edge. “Heard these feel real nice,” he starts, and suddenly-

Suddenly Hanzo can’t bear it, can’t bear the thought of listening to McCree describe something that will never happen. Soon they’ll leave this strange soap-bubble reality in which they fuck, and go back to the everyday reality of being nothing more than teammates.

“Enough,” Hanzo gets out, more breathless than he’d like, and true to his word, McCree wastes no time getting his mouth back on Hanzo’s cock, hot and wet and _tight_ , as McCree hollows his cheeks and drags his mouth back up.

Hanzo lets himself go, shuddering pleasure wracking his body as McCree shoves his mouth down fast and wet, pulls back hard and so, so tight, until the pleasure overwhelms him and he comes, shaking, something like a whine escaping his throat, as McCree swallows him down again. When he’s finished he collapses, sitting back heavily on his heels, forehead dropping to rest against McCree’s shoulder, breath coming in ragged gasps as he tries to collect himself. There’s no reason for a simple blowjob to affect Hanzo this much, but even as he thinks as much he knows he’s lying to himself. He can still hear McCree’s rough, rich voice murmuring about _watchin’ a man squirm_ , and even that memory is enough to make Hanzo shiver.

Hanzo forces himself to sit up, pull composure around himself like armor, and attempts a calm smile.

“Thank you,” he says. “That was far more entertaining than amateur weather observations.”

“Darlin’, you sure know how to make a man feel special,” McCree says with a laugh. He seems perfectly at ease as they set their clothing back to rights, but Hanzo feels strangely self-conscious. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, doubly so after sex, when he usually gets dressed and leaves without a second thought.

“I could do with a nap,” McCree says, flopping back on the mattress with an _oof_. “Listen to me, I’m gettin’ old.”

Hanzo hums in response. A nap sounds agreeable, especially when once again faced with hours to spare and nothing to do. He checks the fire, adds a few logs, and sits down cross-legged on the sleeping platform, close to the stove. McCree is sprawled out on the other end, metal arm over his eyes and legs crossed at the ankle, apparently already dead to the world. 

It’s dark now, the wind moaning around the corners of the cabin and the inside lit only by the dim and flickering light cast by the fire through the tiny, smoke-darkened pane of glass in the stove door. Hanzo rests his eyes on McCree, on the trim length of his abdomen and the swell of his thighs, before deliberately closing his eyes. Perhaps a nap will clear his mind.

Hanzo dozes sitting up, leaning against the wall, until the sudden pop of a burning log jerks him back to the surface of wakefulness. He’s not sure how long he’s been out - long enough for some stiffness to set in, and for the fire to burn down mostly to coals. Hanzo stands and stretches, catches sight of movement in the darkness as McCree appears to do the same. There’s the sound of a lighter and then the cabin is illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight.

“All this sleep I’m gettin’, I’ll be ready to go for a month without by the time we get back,” McCree says, cracking his neck.

Hanzo allows himself to smile. “It would be convenient if sleep worked that way,” he replies.

They spend the next few hours much as they had before their brief interlude, Hanzo still attempting to read accounts of fishing trips in cramped Russian handwriting, and McCree first playing solitaire and then moving on to tossing cards into a pot set across the room. He’s not having much luck - the dogeared, tattered cards don’t fly true - and Hanzo eventually finds himself entirely distracted from the guestbook by watching McCree’s face as he repeatedly fails to find his target.

Eventually they’re hungry enough to face the prospect of more rations bars, and after that, there’s nothing to do but attempt more sleep. They end up lying back to back again, and it seems to Hanzo like he spends hours staring into the darkness, listening to the sound of McCree’s breathing and the muffled crackle of the fire before he finally drifts off.

Hanzo wakes briefly some time later, when McCree rolls over and spoons him, snuggling up close and wrapping an arm around Hanzo’s chest. Hanzo elbows McCree and gets nothing but an incomprehensible mumble in return. For a moment, he sleepily debates the merits of waking McCree up, but he’s warm, and it’s not uncomfortable being on the receiving end of cuddles, and a moment later he’s asleep again.

Hanzo wakes again to the feeling of McCree grinding against his ass, McCree’s arm tight across Hanzo’s chest and his breath damp against the nape of Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo’s thoughts feel syrupy-slow with sleep and lust, warm and dizzy, his entire being narrowed down to the unconscious grind of McCree’s cock rubbing up against him. He shoves back against McCree, meeting his thrusts. Hanzo can feel it when McCree wakes up, can feel it in the stutter of McCree’s hips and his sudden gasp against Hanzo’s neck, but McCree doesn’t stop, and neither does Hanzo. They stay like that for a minute, two - moving together in near silence, just the rasp and rustle of their clothing and their overloud breathing. Hanzo feels like he’s burning up, hard and aching with it, and he wants more but he doesn’t want to break the spell of silence. McCree slides his arm down to cup the bulge of Hanzo’s cock through his pants, and Hanzo gasps at the shock of pleasure even as he misses the feeling of McCree’s arm locked around him, keeping him close.

Half-delirious from feverish arousal, Hanzo imagines saying _fuck me_ , getting McCree to shove his dick in with nothing but sweat and spit to ease the way; he’s so turned on he can almost taste it, wants something in him with a visceral need - but there’s just enough left of his common sense to remind him that as much as he might want it, the aftermath wouldn’t be worth it. He settles for clumsily sliding a hand down and squeezing McCree’s hand where’s it’s rubbing at Hanzo’s cock, before popping his button open and working his fly down.

“Want you,” he whispers into the darkness, too worked up to care about how needy he sounds, and McCree gasps and groans.

“Lemme fuck your thighs,” McCree murmurs, rough and low. “I’ll clean you up good after, fuck, Hanzo, please-”

“Yes,” Hanzo gasps out, and McCree moans again, his hand vanishing from Hanzo’s fly as he struggles to get his own cock out.

They’re silent after that. Hanzo gets his pants and thermals down just enough to give McCree room, feels McCree’s cock drag hot and damp across the swell of Hanzo’s ass, hears McCree spit in his hand and his metal knuckles bumping cool against Hanzo’s overheated skin as McCree slicks himself up. McCree shifts behind him, works his right arm under Hanzo and drags him back against McCree’s chest as his left hand guides his cock down, rubbing for one brief, teasing moment down the crack of Hanzo’s ass before he slides home between Hanzo’s thighs, McCree’s zipper digging sharp into Hanzo’s skin. Hanzo clenches down, flexing his thighs around the thick, hot weight of McCree’s cock as McCree thrusts jerkily forward. McCree’s left hand settles, hard and unforgiving, on Hanzo’s hip, and he thrusts again, the head of his cock bumping up against Hanzo’s balls, rubbing up against his perineum. Every thrust sends more pleasure sparking along his nerves, building and building until he’s nearly out of his mind.

Hanzo is caught between McCree’s arm clamped across his chest and the hand on his hip, held in place for McCree to thrust into, his ragged breathing echoing in his ears. He feels suspended on a tide of arousal, loose and feverish with it.

McCree moans, long and low, resting his forehead against Hanzo’s spine as he thrusts frantically, and Hanzo gets a hand on his own dick, jerks himself hard and quick as McCree begins to shudder against him. Hanzo feels the warm splash of come across his balls, and he shivers, whining, but McCree grabs Hanzo’s hand in his implacable metal grip, stills Hanzo’s hand on his cock.

“Easy there, darlin’, I’ll take care of you,” McCree whispers, still breathing hard.

McCree rolls Hanzo onto his back, drags Hanzo’s ass up into his lap and yanks Hanzo’s pants down past his knees. He knocks Hanzo’s legs wide and folds him nearly in half before bending down and licking one long stripe from Hanzo’s ass to his balls.

Hanzo _shouts_.

McCree’s tongue is wet and hot and relentless as he makes good on his earlier promise and licks Hanzo clean, until Hanzo is moaning shamelessly and tangling his hands in McCree’s hair. Hanzo is reaching the edge of desperation when McCree shakes himself free of Hanzo’s hands, drops his legs, and crawls up over Hanzo, kissing him hot and hard before sliding back down and getting his mouth on Hanzo’s cock.

Hanzo thrusts up into McCree’s willing mouth, and McCree lets him, rides it out as Hanzo chases his own pleasure. It doesn’t take long - Hanzo is so keyed up it only takes a few thrusts into that wet heat before he’s coming, pleasure cresting and breaking around him in shivering waves, until he comes back to himself, breathing hard and staring into the darkness, and for the first time since he woke up, starting to feel cold and a little ridiculous.

McCree lets Hanzo’s softening cock slide out of his mouth and sits back on his heels.

“Damn, Shimada, you’re something else,” McCree says, something akin to respect in his voice, and Hanzo finds himself entirely at a loss for how to respond.

He’s saved by the sudden synchronized chime of their comms, the harsh blue-white light from the screens lighting up the cabin. McCree rolls off the sleeping platform, tucking himself away and doing up his fly as he goes, and Hanzo finds himself fumbling to catch up, unwilling to be lying here with his dick out while McCree is dressed.

“Says the Orca’s back up and there’s a break in the weather comin’, should be here in three hours,” McCree says, scrolling through the message.

Just like that, Hanzo feels the little soap-bubble universe waver and collapse, reality rushing back in. 

“Very well,” he replies, standing up.

They have barely enough time to get the sauna warm enough for a utilitarian scrub down - neither of them want to meet their teammates still reeking of sex - and restock the wood and kindling for the next visitors to the cabin. Their coms chime with a fifteen minute warning as they finish their minimal packing.

“Seems a shame to leave,” McCree says, looking around. “Pretty nice place, all things considered. Made some good memories.” He winks roguishly at Hanzo. Hanzo says nothing, only raises an eyebrow.

Hanzo has his hand on the door handle when he realizes McCree has stopped at the table, bent over as he writes something in the guestbook.

“What are you doing?” Hanzo asks.

“Leavin’ a surprise for the next guys,” McCree says cheerfully. “Here, come write your kanji.” He steps aside and Hanzo looks at the guestbook - there’s the date of their arrival, previous destination Murmansk, and the date of their departure - McCree has left a question mark as their next destination, and under that, their names in McCree’s surprisingly elegant handwriting.

“Really?” Hanzo asks.

“Sure! No one’s gonna believe it’s us, might as well have some fun.”

Hanzo shakes his head, but he adds the kanji for his name, and adds a brief note - _We enjoyed the rustic atmosphere of the cabin and sauna._ McCree, reading over Hanzo’s shoulder, chuckles.

“That’s one word for what we did,” he says.

They leave the cabin tidy and dark, the door shut tight, and trudge down through the new fallen snow towards the lake. The wind is still blowing out of the north, but it’s dropped in intensity, and there are breaks in the cover overhead, stars gleaming through the tattered stormclouds. They wait at the edge of the lake, concealed under the pine trees, watching the southern sky.

Hanzo feels real life rushing back in around him, oppressive and stifling. Any minute, he’ll hear the roaring of the Orca over the rushing of the wind. Tracer will be there, and perhaps a few others, and he and McCree will walk up the loading ramp and never speak of this again.

The feeling reminds him of his youth, of returning to his duties as the Shimada heir, and that realization spurs him into action. He clears his throat, waits for McCree to glance at him.

“If you still wish to ride a dragon,” Hanzo says, falling back into formality out of discomfort, “perhaps arrangements could be made when we return to areas more... conducive to such efforts.”

“You saying you want to fuck again when we got a proper bed handy?” McCree asks, smile playing around the corner of his lips.

Hanzo sighs at McCree’s bluntness, his face drawing up in an expression of vague disgust, but - “Yes,” he replies.

McCree turns to face Hanzo, pulling off his right glove as he does. 

“I’ll shake to that, partner,” McCree says with a wide smile.

There’s a wild feeling bubbling up in Hanzo’s chest, fierce and triumphant, something not even the sound of fast-approaching engines can quell as he closes his bare hand around McCree’s.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Hanzo replies, over the roar of the Orca touching down amidst a flurry of kicked-up snow.

“Oh, you’ll hold me to _somethin’_ , alright,” McCree says slyly as they jog toward the waiting transport, and Hanzo finds himself grinning into the weak morning sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Robo-cryptid for reading some of the porn and assuring me it wasn't awful, and to Mataglap for pointing out the terrrible double pun in the title, and to everyone else who was excited and encouraging when I was complaining about writing. And a special thanks to AverageJoke for catching a million typos after I posted this, whoops.
> 
> And while I did my best to make sure everything regarding Hanzo and Jesse's route through the wilderness and the cabin itself was accurate, if you're familiar with Kiertämäjärvi you may have noticed one terrible, glaring error: there is no sauna at Kiertämäjärvi. Let's just imagine that the Finnish park service has built one by the time Overwatch happens. ^_~ (in case anyone is interested, the sauna is pretty much pulled exactly from the one at Luirojärvi.)
> 
> ETA: Now with podfic! omg! [Check it out here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613129) Thank you, [wonderwhatthisbuttondoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwhatthisbuttondoes/pseuds/wonderwhatthisbuttondoes)!


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